8 Minutes Till Monday

Don't Breathe

My feet hurt like Hell..

I haven't showered in weeks..

Food is.. less than impressive..

Weapons aquired: two and a half..

  His feet drag through the city rouble as he trudges around fallen, decomposed and decomposing, bodies. It smells like Satan's ass, but he can't smell it. Not with the gas mask that adorns his face tightly. His worn, tired eyes scan every little thing around him - analyzing, calculating, identifying, planning. He hasn't slept in two days. 'No time,' he tells himself. 'Keep running.'

  Dustin is seventeen years old. He's pretty skinny, and very pale. He hasn't cut his hair in about a month, so it's light brown clumps were reaching the bridge of his nose. His bruised and dirty skin was aching and pleading for him to rest. He hasn't seen a mirror in weeks - not since the bombing happened. He puts on whatever he can find in terms of clothes. As of now, he wears a more than torn grey wool beanie, and an oversized army green dirty parka. He wears very broken-in hiking boots he took from a decrepit Dick's Sporting Goods, along with baggy cargo pants. He gathered other supplies from the same destitute retailer, and was more than thankful for it. In his hand he holds a chipped machete he found one day during his venture to the city, passing by a collapsed tool shed a week prior to finding the abandoned store.

  He notices from the corner of his eye an unopened can of soda. He goes over and picks it up to put it in one of his pockets. Then he found a chip bag. This feels too easy for him, and he cautiously inspects the area. He then finds a smashed twinkie, and notices a small, plump hand sticking out from beneath a large piece of fallen building debris. He stiffens and suddenly feels nauseous and dizzy. He decides to leave the twinkie with the dead child out of respect, but takes the other snacks for his survival.

  About 30 minutes and four miles later, he stumbles upon an abandoned food truck on its side. Three people are rapidly decomposing beneath and around the truck. Dustin steeles himself and sharks the truck, circling it quietly. A sudden clanging noise came from the truck, and his eyes widened and he got his machete ready as his body tensed with adrenaline. His eyes locked onto the source of the noise, and another minute later, a sickly-looking cat came crawling out, mewling pained moans and whines. It's body was decaying as it breathed, and it's tongue was completely green, its body was rotting away with open sores and foul smelling odors of definite infection were practically pouring out of this damn thing.

  Dustin was taken aback by this tortured cat, and he felt fear and disgust and pity for the pained creature. He wondered if killing it off right then and there would be merciful to this suffering soul. He raised his machete and brought it down onto the cat's neck. It was a more or less clean cut. The body twitched for a good couple seconds, but it stopped writhing eventually, and became a tortured statue. Dustin raised the machete so he could see what was left on it. It was a putrid mixture of crimson and impure, clumpy, slimy dark green. The damn thing even bubbled. He gagged a little, and wiped the sin off his weapon using a napkin he found on the ground not yet blown away by the wind. He cautiously stepped away from the food truck, figuring that whatever was left probably came into contact with the infected cat.

  After an hour or so, the sun was starting to set, and a sickly green hue to the sky didn't help ease any tension in his shoulders as he trekked to his shelter. It definitely wasn't much to oogle at. It was made of mostly pieces of scrap metal and a bunch of tarp. He opened his LED handheld lamp that he grabbed from his thigh pocket. The bright light helped him see where the matches were. He tried not to use the LED for minor cases, saving its batteries for more emergency-oriented situations was more important to him, especially in the long run. He struck a match and lit a small fire pit in the ground surrounded by metal and stones. He then turned off the LED and pocketed it once more. He shook out the match and stomped on it for reassurance. He removed his parka and sat near the dim but warm fire, sticking out his skinny arms towards the flames. He put his machete blade over the lightly cracking tendrils of heat so as to eliminate any germs that might've attached themselves onto it when he releived the cat of its pain.

  Dustin then took out the snacks and soda from his pocket. Luckily, he already had distilled water in his little hut. He popped the bag with the tip of the machete, making a tiny hole and letting the air out of the bag. He then crushed up the chips into what he considered mostly dust, and unscrewed the bottle. He poured some of the water into the chip bag and mixed it with the chip dust. He grabbed a thin, handy tube he used to take in his food and/or water. He then shivered as he poured the less than prefferable concoction into the tube that went into his mouth, not having to remove the mask. He almost gagged, but he couldn't remove the mask - not if he wanted to live to see another Godforsaken day on this decaying piece of rock and ocean. Once he was done, he had to wash it down with the water by itself - but only a little. He had to conserve any and everything he had.

  He peeked out of his hut to check the sky. Eerie dark green and ominous navy blue skies met his eyes. For now, he needed to rest. He was already so isolated, so he put off building a fence for the moment. He shut the tarp he peeked through, and laid down on a pile of torn blankets he found over the last couple ventures into the city. He put his parka over him as he formed the fetile position for even more insured warmth. Then, he drifted off into much needed sleep.